


Resist the Urge

by Skyuni123



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Flirting, Bisexual James Bond, Bisexuality, Everyone is Cynical, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fear of Flying, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Overworking, Pain, Panic Attacks, Protective James Bond, Q is bad at being nice to himself, Sarcasm, Slash, Stress Relief, Villain of the Week #238938423, We all love our pet boffins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond is MI6's pinnacle of human achievement. He's charming, irresistible, good at what he does, and hot...<br/>Q is totally not going to admit that he just said that out loud.</p><p>-</p><p>James Bond and Q have an interesting working relationship. However, when an urgent mission throws Q into the field alongside 007, their dynamic changes into something neither of them would have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Equipment Debarcle No.4506

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh this fic is not planned at all. 
> 
> James/Q
> 
> You know how this works.

Q is pleasantly surprised when 007 arrives back at Headquarters with all of his equipment intact.

In fact, it's pretty much a bloody miracle, one on par with 007’s survival at Skyfall. Q, however, doesn’t tell 007 that, because the agent’s ego is already tumescent, and Q fears that with any more undue praise, the man would not be able to fit through most doors. 

The older man places his gun (Walther PPK, fingerprint activated, fires a multitude of things including bullets, ridiculously hard to get the calibration right) down on the ledge by Q’s left hand, resting on his laptop, and smirks. “It is possible for me to come back from a mission unscathed.”

Q responds, not even looking up from the line of code he is typing, very dryly, “Yes. That’s why, out of the twenty-six missions you’ve been on since I took over as Quartermaster, you’ve arrived back without a scratch on yourself or your equipment once. Truly an accomplishment, 007.”

“I aim for precision in all things.” 007 replies, almost teasingly.

Q fights the urge to roll his eyes. All the 00 agents are the same. Brilliant, charismatic, and annoying as hell. “Unless you have a fault with your equipment, 007, please bugger off. Some of us have work to do.” He flicks his fingers, trying to work out some of the cramp he tended to get from his typing-based RSI. Pain slightly lessened, he goes back to typing. 

007 purrs, nearly in his ear, “Oh, Quartermaster, I can assure you I have no faults with my equipment,” and walks gracefully out of the room. 

Q definitely does roll his eyes this time.  
He also, definitely, tries to fight back the blush rising on his cheeks.

007, and several other agents are very attractive, but Q does not have the time or the capacity for a relationship. Plus, there are, of course, several other reasons that 007 or any other agents wouldn’t want Q, but they didn’t really bear thinking about.

Why did he take this job?


	2. First Name Basis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond hangs around.  
> Q is welding.  
> No-one knows how Q's beloved jumpers survive the experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am quite tired and this was written about an hour ago in the dead of night. What can I say, I keep the hours of an idiot.
> 
> Hence, if there's any tense errors, they're on me.

The next time he sees 007 is a week later, after the agent has arrived, somewhat-safely, back from a mission in Tanzania that Q talked him through. Aside from a quick scrape with the wrong end of a knife, the agent is fine. His equipment though? It’s another matter entirely. 

Q is in his lab, welding a small panel back onto a very complex piece of equipment that is pretty much just shards at this point. As he finishes and pulls off the welding mask, wiping a hand over his sweaty forehead, he spots 007 waiting outside the ‘metalwork’ area of the lab. He’s a little bit surprised that the man didn’t creep up on him whilst he was welding, but perhaps the man has a little bit of sense. 

“I didn’t know you could weld.” The agent says, as his way of greeting. 

“I’m a jack of all trades.” Q pulls off his gloves and places them on a bench. “If anyone is dealing with the utter shambles your equipment often turns out to be, they have to be. I thought you’d turned over a new leaf last week. I guess I was wrong.”

007 looks like he is about to speak, but Q stops him, “You legitimately cannot say that you came back without breaking anything. Your equipment is in tatters and you’re injured.” He raises an eyebrow at the man. 

“Yet I still have this pretty face.” 007 teases.

Q stares at him incredulously, “Really? Is this the famous 007 charm I’m getting? I guess the rumours I’ve heard are not to be believed if that’s the case.”

007 pouts, looking not unlike a petulant child. 

Q, slowly shakes his head at the sheer ridiculousness of the follower he has apparently picked up and strides past the other agent and out of the room. He can’t get anything done with the other man hanging off his every word.  
After a few steps down the corridor, it becomes apparent that 007 is following him.  
Q is tired, needs to get something resembling work done before he goes home - if he goes home - and having someone hanging around him for no apparent reason isn’t going to help. He fights to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “007 -” He sighs and turns around, not quite sure what he’s about to say

“Call me James.” James says, “I think we’ve known each other long enough to be on a first-name basis at least.” He cocks an eyebrow at Q, “Don’t you think so?”

Personally, in his mind it is better to keep things such as first names and personality traits out of the equation. If someone is on the brink of death at any moment, it is easier to keep emotions and feelings, whatever they may be, out of the situation at hand. It is logical. However, in this case, whilst his subconscious clearly wants logic, his conscious mind does not, “James. Fine. Now, unless you want a gun that misfires next time you’re on a mission, leave me alone.”

Without a word of farewell, the agent struts off down the corridor that leads back to the rest of Headquarters. Q stares after him, confused out of his mind. 

Honestly, what is wrong with the man?


	3. A Petulant Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q works too hard. We all know this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still late at night.  
> I am still writing dialogue.  
> Ho hum.

It is far-too-early-for-any-human-o’clock in the morning. Q actually can’t remember when the last time he had slept is, but he is sure it wasn’t anytime in the last day or so. It is nearing Christmas and he’d been at work non stop for weeks.  
Like retail stores which were far busier at Christmas, hubs of crime and villainy the world over had decided that the holiday period was their time to be incredibly annoying. It was like they didn’t want the hypothetical ‘powers that be’ to have a chance to relax. 

Q has some of the worst hand cramp of his life, but he has to keep going. He has gadgets to build, people to save, camera feeds to maintain… that sort of thing. It isn’t a job he could easily pass off to one of his underlings, even if they are hanging about out in the main lab.  
He doubts it.  
They are probably at home, sleeping. He craves the luxury of sleep but it isn’t something he could ever properly let himself have. He is always wound too tightly to really relax. 

Q tabs through several screens, focussing on one that has code running along the right edge and a video feed across the rest of the window. The code swims in front of his eyes and he blinks furiously, trying to wake up enough to get at least this window dealt with.  
He tries his hardest to focus, but his eyesight isn’t having it. 

Dammit. Perhaps it is time for a break - splash some water on his face, that sort of thing.

He minimises what he can, leaving the most important feeds open on the screen.  
Pushing his chair back from his desk, he eases himself to his feet, wincing when gravity puts pressure on muscles that are painful just from his hunched position on his chair. He realises he probably should have taken a break at an earlier juncture when he finds that he can’t even straighten up to a proper standing position because the pain all along his back is too great. 

Wonderful. He’ll have to Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame-it at least until the tension in his back eases up. 

Limping to the bathroom, he does what he needs to do and then grips onto the sink and splashes water in his face. He wavers, suddenly feeling dizzy (when was the last time he had eaten?) and grips the edge of the sink tighter for stability, gazing down at the white porcelain. 

Hell, he’s overdone it this time. And he’s not even done with his work. 

It is when he looks up back in the mirror, he notices three things.  
One, the bags under his eyes could rival those of an intercontinental traveller,  
two, his eyes are bloodshot and his pupils are far more dilated than they should be,  
and three, there is one James Bond standing about two metres behind him, clearly reflected in the mirror.

Q jumps what would be about a foot high if he had anything resembling energy. He looks behind him to check that, yes, indeed, Bond is standing there and isn’t a mirage brought on by lack of sleep and back pain and says, “”Bloody hell man, do you teleport?”

“Took you long enough to notice me.” Bond strolls right up behind him and grasps him by the waist. “I think you were asleep standing up. It’s not hard to appear out of nowhere if your target is oblivious.”

God, he smells good. Whilst Q’s other senses are off cavorting somewhere entirely not useful, his olfactory sense is overwhelming him with the smell of the other man. Sweat - which whilst not being an amazing smell on the whole, seems to work, several floral notes… the man’s scent is a mystery wrapped in an enigma if the enigma is a fragrance shop.  
He clears his throat and some semblance of his thoughts, “007, why do you smell like roses?”

“I find people generally like the smell of them. And, call me James.”

“Godddd, you are the sheer stereotype of a modern-day Casanova, it’s sickening.” Q suddenly can’t stop laughing. It’s ridiculous. He thinks he’s tired.

00-James(!) looks concerned, “Q, when did you last take a break?”

“What are you, my mum?” Q shrugs free of James’ grip, still giggling, “To be perfectly honest, I have no idea. But I’m fine.” 

He takes two steps away from the other man and passes out.  
Typical.

\--

When he wakes Q is in the dark. The respite from the sheer brightness of his office lights is welcome, but he has no clue where he is. Then he realises he’s lying down on his side. That makes sense considering the whole world has been orientated weirdly. He wonders if he’s still tired. He seems a bit slow on the uptake altogether. 

He sits up and the movement hurts his head. Blackness swims in front of his eyes for a second but he manages to blink it clear.  
He’s in a car. He squints at the driver, but he can’t quite make him out… wait. The silhouette. 

Clearing his throat, he asks, “Bond, why have you kidnapped me?”

“James, please.” The driver says, “And I’m taking you home.”

“You don’t even know where I live.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing that your address is on file, like everyone else’s in this organisation, isn’t it?” James sounds angry. 

Q wonders why. “I think kidnapping is against my human rights.”

“Q, you’re dehydrated, the dining room says you haven’t swiped your card for nearly three days and I’m willing to bet you haven’t properly slept for at least a week.” James’ words are no nonsense and would probably be quite important if Q wasn't more focussed on the absolute softness of the car seat.

“I have to work, 007. Take me back.”

There is silence for a moment and then James explodes, “For fuck’s sake, Q, you’re running yourself into the ground! You could hardly stand when I got there and you passed out from dehydration, malnutrition, lack of sleep or a combination of both. You’re going to kill yourself from overworking.”

“Says he whose primary beverage is any form of alcohol.” Q mutters. He’s not going to kill himself. He knows his limits.

“I know my limits.” And clearly, so does Bond. “I passed your work onto your underlings. Anything else will be there when you come back.”

“It’s the busiest time of the year.” 

“Which is why Q Branch doesn’t need to lose its best Quartermaster from negligence of his own health.”

“Ugh. Fine.” It is not fine. As soon as Q gets home, he’s catching a taxi straight back to Headquarters. 

There is a pause. It is pregnant with tension that manifested out of seemingly nowhere.  
Then James says, quietly, “I know you’re lying.”

“Why do you care, 007?” Q says cooly. He’s an adult. He knows what he wants.

“Because you’re a petulant little thing.” Q can hear James’ smirk in his words and he doesn’t like it, “But you’re also one of MI6’s best. I don’t want you running yourself down. Too many people do that.” 

“We’re not even going to get into the ‘little thing’ comment.” Q snipes at him, “Are you saying you do care?”

“Well, considering I’m going to stay with you until you’re well again, I’d say I do.”


	4. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is overworked.  
> James is protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I am not British, so apologies if anything in this is a little bit off.

It is oddly intimate letting James into his flat. He doesn’t spend nearly as much time here as he knows he should, but it is rare for someone to be in the house with him. He is a solitary person, he does have a cat who someone who works for Headquarters comes to feed whenever he doesn’t get home, but on the whole, Q is not good at getting close to people. He thinks that the last person he let into the flat was Eve, when she helped him move in over three years ago. It’s not that he has any particular attachment to the place, it’s just that it’s got a lot more of him in it than any other place where he resides. 

He calls for his cat as soon as they get inside. Her name is Ally and she’s a giant tabby. Surprisingly, she runs up to him immediately for a stroke. He’s surprised she even remembers him, considering how often he comes home. Even more surprisingly, she goes straight to James after him, which is odd, because when he lived elsewhere with her, she never liked guests.  
He throws the other agent a questioning look. Bond winks, as he tends to do.  
“Go to bed, Q. I’ll deal with everything here.” 

He realises he’s still hobbling and decides suddenly that that is a very good idea. As he stumbles off to his bedroom he calls back, “Don’t touch anything important!”

“What dictates importance?” Bond calls back.

Q doesn’t have the energy to answer. He just hopes he doesn’t wake up to find the Kremlin blown up or something because James has touched something he shouldn’t have. 

When he wakes his hair is an incredible mess, and he’s sure he looks like shit. Gently pushing Ally off the bed, because she’s decided that curling into a giant cat-shaped lump on his head is a good thing, he hobbles (because his back still isn’t right, damn it) to the ensuite and becomes fully aware that he does, indeed, look like shit.  
He smells something delicious just as his stomach rumbles. Two days without food? That can’t be right… can it?  
He decides that a shower can wait. Food. Food is good. 

With the gait of a man twice his age, he makes his way slowly to the kitchen. James is there, reading the newspaper and looking so oddly domestic it hurts. It’s not that Q has a thing for Bond, it’s just that Q has a thing for normality, and more than a little bit of a thing for domesticity. Which is why he took a job at MI6, the most normal and domestic agency around. Right. 

“Afternoon, sleeping beauty.” James, as per usual, has a quip ready. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Q runs a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious, “I didn’t realise I had any food here.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh... “

“It’s not like it was any trouble,” The older agent smirks, “Have you heard of this thing called the internet? You can order in.” 

“At three in the morning?”

James gives him a considering glance. “Q, you’ve slept for nearly a day and a half.” 

A day and a half? Really? “Shit.”

“Yes, I was actually getting a bit worried. You need to sleep more.”

Q goes over to the cupboard, gets out a bowl and serves himself some soup, “Thank you Doctor James, I’m fully aware of that.” 

“Q… I’m serious.”

“Come on, James, it’s not like you get six hours a night or anything.” 

“You and I are very different people.” 

Q pouts and sits down at the table. Taking a spoonful of the soup, he blows on it and tries it. It’s remarkably good, “Didn’t know you were a closet chef, James.” He’s read the man’s files, but there is nothing in personnel files about any sort of hobbies that the man possesses, aside from the ‘shooting and shagging’ thing. 

“A lot of people don’t know I’m a closet anything.” 

Q looks up at him sharply (is he saying what he thinks he’s saying) then looks back down at his soup, “I’ll think more about that remark when I am more sound of mind and body.” He has more soup. It is really good soup, tasty and with the exact amount of salt he likes.  
He wonders how James knows. He’s probably stalking him. With the amount of times he’s seen James lately he wouldn’t be surprised.  
He finishes his soup and clambers up from the table, “Rest and recuperation. I’m fixed. I can go back to work now, James.”

“Is it so much trouble to wait until tomorrow? We’re halfway through the day.” James is still reading his newspaper.

Not halfway through his day. He wonders if James will try and stop him if he tries to leave. He looks longingly at the door and thinks about it. 

“Don’t even try it.” James looks up from his paper.

Q wonders if James can read minds. He certainly hopes not.  
“I’m a prisoner in my own home.” Q whines softly.

“What is your issue with having time off?”

He stares stoically at the older agent, “What is your issue with working?”

“Because we all need a break and you need one more than most. MI6’s youngest Quartermaster. You’ll be in an early grave if you keep this up.” James’ gaze is steady and fixed on his. He blushes. It’s a bad habit.

He’s… not great… at eye contact. Especially if the person initiating the eye contact is devilishly handsome and knows it.  
Technology is easier. It doesn’t look back at you.

“Anyway.” He stands up from the table, breaking the unnervingly strong gaze, and places his bowl in the sink, “I have things to do.”  
He walks, still somewhat hunched over, out of the kitchen. 

“Oh, and Q?” James calls.

He refuses to stick his head back into the kitchen. He is not a dog. “What?”

“Want a massage?”

He goes back into the kitchen. “What?”

“Want a massage? I’m told I’m good with my hands.” The other agent gives him a Look that seems to dare him to say something. 

He scoffs, “James, just because you’re in my house does not mean I’ll fall into bed with you like approximately every other person over legal age in the world.”

“Q.” His tone turns serious, “You’ve hurt yourself and I can help. Nothing untoward.” 

“Bet you say that to all the girls.” He mutters and was nearly 100% sure that James caught it. “Fine. Where do you want me?”

James gives him an appraising look that is more than a little bit flirtatious. 

Q immediately regrets his choice of words, “Let’s forget I ever said that. Where should I lie?”

“I think your bed should do.”

 

He kicks the Allycat off the bed, strips off his jumper and jeans and lies down on his stomach. The Allycat jumps back onto the bed and settles on top of the back of his knees, which isn’t surprising. It hurts but he can tolerate it. Anything for the cat. He’s too soft for words.  
He’s not self conscious about his body, never has been, but for James to see it? The James Bond, MI6’s poster boy for great health and vitality? He’s thankful he still has his briefs on. 

He shivers as James strokes a hand over his back. It’s not even remotely sexual but he’s had absolutely no skin to skin contact with anyone for over three years, so really, at this point, anything feels pretty good. 

“I like the tattoos.” James says and he can practically feel it against his skin. 

He shivers again. Bad libido. Down libido. Now is not the time. 

The tattoos on his back were an afterthought. A way to remember what he was before he joined the organisation that could potentially end his life. He hasn’t shown them to another person for years. 

“Care to share?” James continues, interrupting his train of thought.

“Not at the moment.” He says softly, “Another time perhaps.” He’d gotten those tattoos in a different time, before MI5, before Silva, before the mission that started his career… Another time perhaps, indeed.

James seems to understand his silence. “Another time.” He agrees.

To say the massage was a good massage was the understatement of the century.  
If Q didn’t have a firm belief in the power of science, he would say James’ hands were literally magical. 

He falls asleep at one point and when he wakes the room is dark. He stretches. He feels… surprisingly good. Standing up, he manages to walk across the room without much pain in his back. Ridiculous. Turns out that Bond has some talents after all.

After having a shower and changing into another selection of his trademark jumpers and jeans, he heads downstairs, nearly tripping over the Allycat on the stairwell on the way.  
James is, once again, in the kitchen. Still painfully domestic, still reading the newspaper - although presumably a different one this time.

“I didn’t realise you were such a slow reader, Bond.” Q says dryly, searching his cupboards for tea. Yes, he’s a walking British stereotype. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“At least I read the news, _pup_.”

The term of endearment is a bit of a shock, but Q is used to pretending he’s fine, so he just continues with his hunt for tea. “Mmm, I think ‘pup’ is a bit of a reach, don’t you? I’m only twelve years younger than you.” 

“The tea’s next to the sink, pup.” Bond smirks at him and goes back to his paper.

And so it is.

He’s just boiling the water for the tea when both his phone and Bond’s go off simultaneously.  
This could mean one of two things.  
First, it’s a call from Headquarters, or second, it’s an incredibly improbable coincidence.  
Q doesn’t believe in coincidence so it’s likely the former. 

Joys above. 

He was actually beginning to enjoy his time off.


	5. 5. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is a self-loathing snowflake.  
> James is perceptive.  
> They're both going to Switzerland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Bond. It's just that he's a bit of an ass sometimes.

Their mission is as follows: to travel to Bern, Switzerland for a Global Peace Conference or something, and then James will do his spy thing and Q will hack someone’s computer. Q isn’t entirely sure as he became preoccupied after he read in the mission briefing that James and himself would be posing as a couple for the duration of the mission. 

He’s not _entirely_ against the idea.  
It _will_ be potentially problematic, though.

For starters, they’re flying to Bern. It’s just what he needs, the **James Bond** seeing that he is entirely terrified of flying. The flight is only just over two hours in duration, but two hours is plenty enough for Q to go through several panic attacks and generally just discredit himself more towards one of MI6's finest.  
Why does Bond need to be so invulnerable to everything? It is entirely unfair.

Then, posing as Bond’s partner for a week?   
Not ideal at all. Whilst his stupid crush on Bond is not nearly at the potentially-wanting-to-jump-him levels that he is sure it will be at after prolonged exposure to the older agent, he has never been wonderful at deception. He will not necessarily be playing a role, or as much of a role as would have been far less complex, but he is not great at acting. There is a reason that he is in Bond’s earpiece, and it is not just because he has a wonderful RSI-related tremor that makes holding a gun partially problematic. 

Plus, the ‘potentially-wanting-to-jump-him’ crush? It’s as though MI6 _knows_.

He is not looking forward to the trip.

All the same, he familiarises himself with the intel at hand and the mission briefing. The Global Peace Conference is being held in Bern, and despite the fact that everyone is supposed to be there to discuss peace, from what intelligence has picked up, an unknown enemy wants to remove people from the conference, permanently. There is a contact they are supposed to meet in Bern to get more of the story. James is going to be there because he is MI6’s poster child and likely able to deal with anything thrown at him, and Q is going to be there because there is an embargo on external influence during the conference, so he will be unable to help James unless he is on location at said conference. 

The mission briefing is more than a little bit factually tenuous and the lack of detail is frustrating.   
He is content to hide among facts.   
Emotions are tricky.   
He’s not had luck with past relationships and that is often not because of his partners. 

The lack of detail, in terms of the mission, is dangerous. To be completely honest, he expects more. 

He is calmly collecting the equipment he will need for the trip overseas from his office downstairs. His stomach feels tight. He’s not good at this sort of thing. As well as the possible emotional impact this trip could have on him, he doesn’t want to fly. It’s been years since he was on a plane and although he knew it would come some day, he had hoped it wouldn’t be for years yet. 

His hands shake. He gets like this when he’s nervous. He knows it’s a drawback, knows that his health problems and general anxieties would discount him from MI6 if he wasn’t so bloody good at what he does. An agent must be fearless and he just isn’t.

“Q!” James says as he enters the room from behind him. The call of his name isn’t loud but he knocks a pile of wires off a stack he’s collecting anyway.

“For fuck’s sake.” He swears and picks them up. His hands tremble a bit as he does. Not ideal. He turns around and faces the other agent, “007.”

“None of that.” James gently admonishes, “We’re supposed to be engaged.” He looks more casual than Q’s ever seen him. He’s dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. It’s odd, and almost discomforting. 

“Not at the moment, 00-Bond.” He catches himself, barely. It’s habit. It’s not at all a coping mechanism. Obviously. 

He turns and continues to place equipment into his duffel bag (non-xrayable (and that is a word) interior, with a layer that projects what he wants machines to see onto it. Patented. By him.).  
Bond, with his excessively annoying perceptive ways has apparently picked up that something is wrong, “Q. How are you feeling?”

It’s a question that he would expect from a friend. Bond is not that. Q doesn’t really know what Bond is to him. “Fine.” It sounds insincere. Of course it does. He really has never been good at deception. 

“Are you lying to me, Q?” Bond is again, gentle.  
What has happened to him? It’s like he cares.

“Not at all, 007. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a plane to catch.” Q zips his duffel bag up, tucking the travel medication he acquired from the MI6 infirmary into the side pocket. 

He’s not ready, but then again, he doesn’t know if he ever will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In terms of Q's hand condition-y thing, it's like fairly legitimate.  
> If you've got bad RSI (I spend a fair amount of time writing/on my computer, I also have a very bad case of RSI, but I definitely do not spend nearly the amount of time Q spends on his computer) your hands often shake and you tend to lose a bit of mobility. It's not totally debilitating, but it's a hassle.  
> Just wanted to clarify that I'm not talking out of my ass haha.


	6. 6. There's Nothing Plane About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has never liked flying. Although it is incredibly scientific, and logical, and all, there's just something intrinsically wrong with being in a metal tube thousands of metres in the air, propelled by what looks like magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> This chapter includes a graphic description of a panic attack and attempted self-injury brought on by said panic attack. 
> 
> Yeah. Q realllllyy doesn't like flying.

The ride to the airport is quiet. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Bond is nervous.  
Q is dressed casually, in a grey sweatshirt and jeans. He doesn’t really know if he fits in with Bond’s bad boy image, but then again, has he ever?  
He recites his cover over and over in his head. He hides in the facts. It makes it easier. Damien Fisher (he’s sure Bond would like to know the origins of that name), thirty-four years old…  
His train of thought is rudely interrupted by Bond, who says, “We’re about ten minutes from the airport, Damien. It’s time.”

To play their roles? Yes. “I am fully aware of that, James.” (He hasn’t had his name changed, because when does he ever? Then again… Q hasn’t really either, but that is a debate for another time.) 

“Good.” James looks uncomfortable. He digs in his pocket, “By the way, the rings.”

Yes. The rings. They are meant to be engaged after all. 

He’s not going to pretend that a little shock doesn’t run through him when Bond slips the ring onto his finger. He’s not going to pretend that he doesn’t like how it feels.  
The ring is, however, very gaudy, and he says so. 

“I had no idea the ring would be what you’d have a problem with.” James smirks, “You’re a young professional, remember. It suits you.”

“Yes, if I’m arrogant as hell.” He bites back.

“Or perhaps you just like nice things?”

“There’s a line between liking nice things and being a magpie, James, and I believe you just crossed it.”

“You’re never satisfied, are you?” James teases. 

“Not by you.” 

James gasps, a shocked gasp that makes Q laugh, out loud. It feels good. It almost makes him forget about the upcoming flight.  
“If only you’d give me the chance.” His words are positively lecherous.  
It constantly amuses Q to see James try to turn on the charm. It’s a good talent, but it really doesn’t work on him. It’s far too… fabricated.

“You wish, fiance.” He plays with the ring just to avoid James’ gaze. It really is far too gaudy. Damien Fisher seems like an arsehole. 

The car pulls to a stop and Q suddenly feels a pang of anxiety. For fuck’s sake. He suddenly doesn’t want to do this again. 

“Q.” James says, “It’ll be fine.”

He certainly hopes so.

-

His resolve barely lasts through Customs. He’s sure he looks suspicious and he’s surprised that he doesn’t run into a ‘random search’, but then again, it could be because James Bond is at his side. People tend to look at James Bond and ignore whatever else is going on in the wings. He supposes it is a talent.  
His resolve crumbles when he is seated in first class. He’s got the window seat. It couldn’t be any worse. Is the universe plotting against him? He certainly thinks so.

James is chatting politely to a stewardess. He fumbles in his bag for his medication and downs some of his pills. They don’t ever really work, medication and him are pretty much a lost cause, but it’s hopefully better than nothing.  
Fuck. The nausea is here. It curls in his stomach and he really hopes he won’t throw up. It’d be fucking embarrassing for one, and it’d completely ruin his ‘calm and collected’ persona he tries to hold onto during most parts of his life.  
The trademark rumble the plane gives as the engines come to life jolts him from his thoughts and then he’s completely gone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He closes his eyes. It’s only a couple of hours, he tells himself, but surprisingly enough, the thoughts don’t help.

There is a touch on his wrist and suddenly he is pulled back to consciousness. “What the fuck, Damien?” James hisses, staring directly at him and putting extra emphasis on the ‘Damien’. He looks pissed. 

“Guess...they didn’t… tell you… about my… hating flying… thing.” He says, through gritted teeth. The plane is taxiing down the runway, he can feel it. His skin is hot and his heartbeat is pounding loudly in his ears. He can’t think, he can’t - he can’t.

He jabs his nails into his thighs because he knows it’s one of the only ways he can center himself. It’s never pretty when he looks at them afterwards but it sometimes works.  
The plane’s engines get louder and louder. He can’t think. Fuck, he wants to get out of here. Why can’t he get out of here? His vision is blurry, breath coming in short pants. He jabs his nails harder into his thighs. He can’t, he can’t, he can’-

And then James is there, right in his personal space. He grabs Q’s hands in his. Q is shaking, and he can hardly see. Why can’t he see?  
“Damien.” James says, “Fucking listen to me.” 

The sound of his voice does nothing to Q. He can’t stop. “We’re going to fall - and crash -” His teeth are clenched tighter than they’ve ever been before, “And die-”

James makes a drastic move, dropping his hands, and pulls Q into his chest. They’re closer than they’ve ever been before. “Damien. We are not going to die.” James sighs into his ear. He cups the back of his neck in his hand, fingers splayed throughout his hair. 

The plane is accelerating and he feels everything. The rumble of the engines, James’ fingers in his hair, his heart pumping in his ears, the sharp tang of someone’s aftershave (he has no idea if it is his), the snake-like nausea hovering in his stomach - it’s too much. He can’t focus. Why can’t he focus? Why aren’t his meds working?

“Damien.” James’ voice is steady. “Tell me who you are.”

Tell him who he is?  
What the fuck?

“Tell me. Tell me who you are. The facts, Damien.”

Facts? He doesn’t have time for -  
The plane lifts off the ground and he sways in his seat. He’s too hot. Everything’s too hot. He struggles, tries to get away, but Bond’s grip is unyielding. 

“Who are you, Damien?!”

He gulps, chokes back the rush of nausea that makes him want to vomit and pants out, through gritted teeth, “Damien Fisher. 34 years old. I- uh -” The information comes to hand immediately. He doesn’t know how it does.

“Go on.” There’s something cool against the back of his neck. It grounds him.

“I - I met you at a bar in Wellington, New Zealand, thr-thr-three years ago.” He licks his lips. They’re suddenly so dry, “I was on holiday. You were there for work. We talked. Turns out we both live in London. Our relationship started from there.”

He’s suddenly so caught up in the story. He can see it. It’s almost...perfect. “I specialise in IT. You’re a diplomat. We moved in together at the beginning of this year. I have a cat.”  
“What about this trip?”

“It’s the Global Peace Conference, of course you’d be there. Knowing that we come as a package, I was asked to manage some of the technological side of things.” 

“You’re completely right.” James rests his chin on his head. “And Damien, you know what? We’re not dead.”

 

And then Q realises they’re flying.  
And they aren’t dead.  
To be perfectly honest, it’s a bit of a shock. 

\--

The flight continues.  
Q drinks ginger ale and pretends he doesn’t exist.  
Even though he’s fairly sure that his little ‘episode’ didn’t last more than a few minutes and he’s positive that the stewardesses on the flight have seen worse (he’s so bloody lucky he didn’t throw up), it’s still embarrassing.

The fact thing, though? That worked. Nothing, shy of full-out, insane amounts of medication has ever worked before.  
He doesn’t know how James did it.  
He would be grateful, would thank the other man profusely if he wasn’t so damn embarrassed.  
Q can be so ridiculous sometimes. It’s infuriating. He’s so surprised he still has the job he has. 

\--

Q is more than a little bit unsteady on his feet when he exits the plane, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder. He walks ahead of James through the air tunnel, still a little bit annoyed at himself and not willing to talk about it.

James, obviously, wants to talk about it. He catches up to him, and claps him around the waist. Leaning down (only barely, because James is still only slightly taller than him), the older man says, “About time we started the act, don’t you think, love?” The ‘love’ is slightly pointed up. It doesn’t really suit the older man. 

“Sure thing, fiance.” Q can’t really help the bitterness in his words. He’s angry at himself and he knows he shouldn’t be taking it out on James, but it’s easier than dealing with it himself. “Are you quite ready to go through Customs?”

James nods. He also gives Q a look that suggests that they’re Definitely Going to Talk About This Later.  
Q sighs. He almost prefers it when James is just flirting with him. 

\--

Their hotel is lavish. Q knows class, knows it from days he’d rather not think about, but this hotel is on the point of excess. Enormous gold chandeliers, polished floors, marble, everything is shiny and far too much. He misses his flat.  
Their room is far too salubrious for words, with a stunning view of the city from its balcony. The bed is simply massive, which Q is thankful for. He knows Bond. He would prefer if nothing untoward went on, as much as he wishes it would. He would like to be able to focus on the job at hand and leave anything else until they were back on home soil. 

James, of course, is having none of that. After Q has scanned for and dealt with the bugs in the apartment in an appropriate and non-suspicious manner, James pretty much drags him to the table in what is presumably the dining room and makes him sit.  
“Word of warning, James, buy me a drink before you get too rough.” It just slips out. It’s not at all his best work, but he smirks at the older man anyway.

James doesn’t respond. “Why didn’t you tell me that you get airsick?”

“Thought you would have read it in my file.”

“I don’t read personnel files, Q, who do you take me for?” James almost looks hurt, “I ask people.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “I didn’t tell you, Bond, because it’s not important. It’s not going to jeopardise the mission. It’s just one of the issues I have. I can overcome it.”

“Sure looked like you overcame it just fine on the plane.” The other agent's words _bite_.

He feels uncomfortable and his face heats almost immediately. “That was cruel, Bond. We have things we should be doing. Can we go and do them instead of sitting about?” He shifts to get off his chair.

James grabs his wrist. “Please, Q.” He’s almost pleading, “We’re on a mission together. We need to be honest with each other.”

He sits back in his chair. He’s too tired for this. Too tired and just too done to care any more. If James wants honesty, he’ll get honesty. “Fine. You’re James Bond. MI6’s guiding light! You don’t get scared, you’ve constantly got a witty retort left for the enemy, you’re charming, you’re irresistible, you’re hot…” Okay, that was a little bit too far in terms of the honesty, “It’s so hard to be a normal human around you. I didn’t tell you about the plane issue because it’s embarrassing. It’s especially embarrassing when I’m me and you’re the…” He waves his hands maniacally, trying to get the right words, “...the fucking pinnacle of human perfection.” 

Ah. Perhaps they weren’t the right words.  
Dumb. Too far. This crush malarky is becoming problematic.  
He places his head in his hands. Sometimes, he just shouldn’t speak. 

James is laughing. Why is James laughing? Why can he hear James laughing?

He looks up, wipes his glasses because they have fogged up during his outburst and fixes James with a glare. “What.” 

“You are ridiculous.” James says, still chuckling a little. “I’m none of those things.” 

“Pretty sure you are…” Q backpedals, “Except for the last one. Excuse my mind. I’m dead on my feet.” He’s blushing more. It’s a really bad habit.

“Q, I get scared. Everyone gets scared. I’m just better at hiding it.” James sounds like he’s telling the truth, “I’ve had more years in the field -”

“If this ends in an age quip I swear-”

“And it’s just a matter of pretending I know what I’m doing. If it ends and I look remotely ‘badass’-” James seems far too uncomfortable with the term, “-then it’s just a bonus.”

None of this is any real surprise to Q. It’s just nice to hear it from the proverbial horse’s mouth. “Oh… Shall we -”

“And you’re not an embarrassment.” James adds quickly, “Everyone’s scared of something and it just happens that you’re scared of flying. It’s fine. I just would have preferred if you had told me.”

“I’m sorry.” Q looks down. The eye contact between them has gone on long enough. 

“Don’t be.” James touches his hand, “Do you have anything else you want to tell me?”

There is one thing, “Despite the fact that I did pass the on-field fire test, I cannot hit a target to save myself.”

“Hopefully we won’t have to test that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be perfectly honest, this chapter was legitimately just me realising that both Daniel Craig and Ben Whishaw are incredibly short.  
> Well, not incredibly short, but you get my point.  
> (I am roughly an inch off Ben Whishaw's height and I'm not a tall person at all. ho hum)
> 
> It was also me pretty much triggering myself into a plane based panic attack. I am another one of those humans who doesn't like flying and I had to fly the other day. I've only just recovered.


	7. Tying a Tie is Mandatory in Spy School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is flustered, James is smirky, the gang goes out to dinner.

Q has a nap, because he is a Serious Adult who needs Serious Sleep. It is possibly the most comfortable nap he has ever had, but no-matter what anyone thinks, he is not beginning to like this break away from the office.

He doesn’t know what James does during his nap. Presumably something important and Super-Spy-like. The conference is not due to start for a couple of days, so really, at this point they’re just here to cement their covers into place and get ready to find the potential assassin, as well as finding their contact in Bern and hopefully learning more about this ‘plot’ that they’re supposed to be stopping. 

He checks on his minions remotely, everything back at Headquarters seems to be progressing just fine, which frankly, is rather surprising. They’d needed him to get their systems back up off the ground, which was why they hired him in the first place, so he’s incredibly surprised nothing has fallen apart yet.

He paints three of the nails on each of his hands black. He doesn’t really know why he does it. He supposes that painting his nails is just one of those little idiosyncrasies that makes him him. Plus, he can. It’s not like it’s going to last long, with the frenzied speed that is his typing, but it calms him. And, he likes the look of it. He’s pretty sure James wouldn’t judge, but then again, he probably wouldn’t even care if he did. James has his hobbies too, it’s just that his are of the more ‘drinking, shagging, nearly-dying’ type, whilst Q’s tend to be more of the ‘nail-painting, animating and sleeping’ kind.

James arrives back just after seven. It’s getting dark and Q actually was beginning to wonder if he’d have to go as far as calling the other agent, but luckily, he arrives back before Q actually has to both. He’s been very lazy for all of the day, but honestly, he really doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have a break. He supposes after three years of nonstop work he can finally use the start of this mission as some form of leave.

“And what time do you call this?” Q drawls from where he is taking up the entirety of the massive bed, limbs flailing out in all directions.

James has the decency to look a little bit ruffled, “Far too late. However, I am taking you out to dinner so I’m guessing that makes up for it?”

“Wow James, you’re getting romantic in your old age.”

“I’ve always been romantic, Q.” James moves to sit on the bed. 

Q gives him about an inch of space. “Sure.” 

“You’ve known me for three years, I can promise I’ve been romantic.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what all the people you’ve wined and dined with during missions have thought. So romantic.” He drawls again.

“Not to distract you from the fascinating details of my love life, but I know where we’re supposed to meet our contact. Perhaps we can continue this conversation at the restaurant where we’re meeting her?” 

Her? Their contact is female? That makes a welcome change. “Her?”

“Yes. She’s lovely.”

And James is basing people on their merits rather than their bodies? Times have certainly changed, “Gosh.”

“Oh by the way, Q.” James continues, “It’s a formal restaurant.” 

Which means a suit. Joy.

\--

It’s not that Q doesn’t like suits. It’s just that he’d prefer suits to either be a) on his floor whilst he was having a romp with a lover of any gender, or b) deep in the heart of his closet, never to see the light of day again. Suits are so uncomfortable and he knows within his heart of hearts that although everyone looks wonderful in a suit, he will never look nearly as good as Bond. It would be a tragic thought except no-one ever looks as good as Bond, so he’s fairly used to it.

He does up the final button on his collar and wrinkles his nose at himself in the bathroom mirror. The collar in particular… it reminds him of school. They’re not memories he really wants to bring back. He shifts. The collar is uncomfortable but he can manage.  
As for the tie… It has been so long since he has tied a tie. He honestly can’t remember how to do it…  
Now, he could either google it or ask Bond. Clearly, it’s a yearning for tie-tying expertise that sends him to Bond, black tie clutched in his hand. Not… like he wants Bond’s hands on him or anything. That would be ridiculous. 

After more than a moment of Bond’s ridiculing him for not being able to tie a tie, he does tie his tie. It is then that Q realises that he can smell Bond, smell the same scent before, and they are very, totally, uncomfortably close. He swallows. They’re so close he could move and p-

“Half windsor knot!” Bond announces, sounding smug, “It’s not that hard.” He absentmindedly smooths Q’s collar back with a hands. 

Q bolts. 

\--

After he’s recovered from the fact that he really needs to get laid or mistakes will definitely happen, he slips on his ring, grabs his dark green suit jacket and goes back to rejoin the other man. He has dressed at the rate of knots and is wearing a dark grey suit with a blue tie. It’s very him. He looks good, but then again, James Bond always looks good. 

“You look breathtaking, Q.” James says, and he actually seems sincere.

Does he? He’s not breathtaking. “I don’t… I mean.. my hair -” He gestures at his mop. It’s tamed. Barely. 

“Breathtaking. I mean it.” 

He plays with the floor with one of his feet, looking down. Compliments are… not easy… to take. “Thanks. I mean, you look fucking stunning so.. yeah. Thanks.”

James glides over with the grace of a panther and takes his arm, “Are you ready, Damien?”

Is he? He supposes he is.

\--

“The nail painting is very you, Damien.” James whispers in his ear as they walk into the restaurant, hands clasped together. “I like it.” 

Well now, Bond likes it? That is a surprise. “I thought it’d be too feminine for you.”

The look he receives is wounded, “I think you’ve been aware for a while that I lean towards both sides of the fence. I don’t have a problem with it. And nail polish being automatically feminine? That one’s on you.”

Wow. He is learning a lot about Bond on this venture. Perhaps the man isn’t nearly as vapid and stereotypically alpha male as he seems. Curious. He makes a noncommittal noise and leans more into Bond as he asks the maitre’d about their booking.   
The table is under the name of Fisher. Clearly Q’s alternate persona is the more dominant one in this relationship. 

There is a young woman already sitting there. She looks to be in her early 30s, is dressed in a deep, flowing green dress and has dark crimson hair that is obviously dyed. She rises to greet them, holding out a hand. “James. Damien. Lovely to welcome you to our city.” Her voice is accented, but not at all with an accent he would have expected. She’s from New Zealand.

“It’s good to see you again, Emilia.” James opts for just a quick peck on the cheek instead of a handshake. 

He smiles and shakes her hand. She seems nice enough, friendly but slightly detached. Just like he is. They seat themselves around the table.

“Personally, I’d recommend the shrimp.” Emilia says slowly, “But then again, I have no idea what you like. Just, order quickly. I have… other engagements.”

They, do indeed, order quickly. Q realises why they’re meeting in a busy restaurant. Places with lots of noise are harder to bug. They’re harder to listen in to. He guesses it is safer.

After their meal, which is, frankly, exquisite, conversation turns to the mission at hand. 

Emilia runs a hand through her hair and says, “We got the intelligence a couple of weeks ago. An undercover agent of ours working within one of the more corrupt corporations in the area discovered that an attack has been planned on the Global Peace Conference. As you know, there’s going to be a lot of important people there. An attack would get a lot of people out of the way, very easily. We thought it was politically motivated, but couldn’t get any more than that. Our agent was actually carrying a whole lot of files back to us when she was ambushed and we lost her.” The woman runs a hand through her hair again. Her gaze is...sad?

“Were you two close?” Q asks, mentally berating himself as he does.

Emilia looks at him sharply, “Hell of a personal question, sunshine. But… yeah. My partner.” She sighs, “Awful way to go.” 

“I’m sorry.” He says. 

“Everyone’s sorry. It’s how the job works, I guess.” She shakes herself, “Anyway. James, care to go and get myself and Q a drink? I’ll pay you back."

James looks deep in thought, but he seems to drag himself back to the present as he uncurls himself from where he is pressed against Q’s side. Their chairs have somehow ended up right next to each other during the meal and Q has no idea how. “If you insist, Em. What do you want?”

“Mojito for me. Q?”

“Just fruit juice of some kind.” It takes a lot to get him to drink alcohol. Especially when he’s supposed to be focussed on the task at hand. 

Orders taken, James slinks off.

“Y’know, he’s totally in love with you.” Emilia says, just as he’s taking a sip from his glass of water.

He coughs, nearly chokes, and gently places the glass down on the table, glaring at her as he does. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s totally in love with you.” She says, playing with her napkin. She slowly begins to fold it into what looks like a swan as he processes her words.

“I… I don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“You do. Because you’re in love with him too.”

“I wouldn’t say in love…”

She raises an eyebrow at him, “I’m calling it. How much do you wanna bet that you hook up before you’ve both saved the lives of everyone at that conference?”

He gulps and he knows he’s beginning to blush, “...Nothing?”

“Sure, sure, sunshine. You’re both fucking falling for each other. It’s adorable, honestly.” 

“In the case of Bond, I doubt it.” He messes up his hair by playing with it. Dammit. “How long have you even known him?”

“Twelve years. Give or take.” 

“Slept with him?”

She gives him a Look and throws an origami napkin swan at him. “Who hasn’t?” 

“But -” He catches the swan and places it to one side. 

“It’s different, with you. I can see it.” She smiles at him, “Oh yeah… speak of the devil.” 

Bond has arrived back with their drinks. “You’re gossiping, I see.”

“Of course.” Emilia giggles, “I don’t get to see anyone around here. I need all the goss.” 

Q can’t look him in the eye when he gets handed his glass of orange juice. In love with him? Does Bond reciprocate his feelings? (Although, to be perfectly honest he isn’t entirely sure what those feelings are yet). 

They finish their evening talking about the mission.  
Q resolutely refuses to look at James.  
He’s already a bit terrified at what the rest of the night will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the last chapter for a little while, folks, I have a fair amount of coursework due in the next week or so and unfortunately film school comes under the title of 'important'.  
> However, I do write this story when I get breaks, so it may be earlier than that. Who knows.
> 
> Feel free to check out my tumblr: [here](http://villainousfilmmaker.tumblr.com)


	8. 8. misinterpretation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's sure he only drank a couple...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk!Q is dopey and slightly more forward than non-drunk Q.

Q has a mountain of files to go through, but he cannot focus. 

Somewhere between his second and third drink (he has never had an amazing tolerance for alcohol), he felt himself getting a bit tipsy. 

It’s only when he sits down at his computer and he realises that he can’t understand half of the words on his screen - and they don’t matter anyway because why would they - he thinks he might have overdone it just a tad. It was all the scenario anyway - good people, good drinks - who can really blame him?

He rubs at his eyes. Perhaps he should just go to bed.  
Then again, he does have a housemate. A fiance.   
The thought makes him laugh. Fiance. His family would be proud.   
He has a fiance he could annoy.  
Because what are fake fiances for if not to annoy?

He wanders back out into the main room of the hotel room.   
His feet are bare. He wonders when that happened. He wonders when a lot of things happened.   
He hasn’t been drunk for so long. Surely not since university. Ridiculous.

Bond is doing something with a gun at the kitchen table. It looks like he’s cleaning it, but then again, Q is never really sure.   
“Hey Bond.” He says, taking a bottle of water out of the fridge and plopping down into a chair opposite the older man. He musses his hair up even more as he tries in vain to move it out of his face.

“Hello, Q.” The other man raises an eyebrow. “How much did you drink?”

“I… don’t know?” And he doesn’t know. He’s pleasantly warm, and feels so good, through. He has memories of drinking with Emilia while Bond was off doing… something… but he doesn’t really know. “Not that much?”

Bond looks at him with such a fond look that Q almost looks away and shakes his head, “You’re slurring.” 

“’m not.” He’s not. Surely not. He just feels warm and good and happy and so comfortable that he can’t be bothered doing anything properly.

“You are. Go to bed. We have that thing called a mission that starts tomorrow, remember?”

“Ugh.” Why should he? A mission? Psh. 

Bond looks at him ruefully, “I can’t believe I’m honestly suggesting this, but do I have to drag you to bed?”

“Is that your famous charm, Bond, because it’s not working on me.” He sighs, “I expected more.” His words are bitter, but he’s definitely joking. He feels overwhelmingly fond of the other man at this present point in time and he doesn’t quite know why. He suspects the alcohol might be playing a slight part.

“You’d know it if I was being charming, Q. Come on.” Bond stands up from the table, grabs his arm and hoists him to his feet. 

“You should carry me, fiance.” Walking requires effort. He really can’t be bothered.

“You have legs, fiance.” 

“Fine.” He snags his water from the table and totally doesn’t stumble towards their bedroom. He’s dignified . He’s classy. It’s fine. 

He hears a snort from behind him. 

“What.” He says, hand braced on the wall, not even bothering to turn around because he’s fifty-three percent sure that if he does the room might start spinning and he’s not quite ready for that.

“You look ridiculous.” 

“ _You_ look ridiculous.”

“Repeating my own words back at me isn’t a comeback, Q.” Then Bond is there, grasping him gently around the waist, and guiding him towards the bedroom.   
He totally doesn’t react. The simple touch doesn’t make him feel better than he’s felt all day, makes him feel loved and comfortable and just happy to be there. It entirely doesn’t, because that would be ridiculous.

Bond guides him into the bedroom and leaves him sitting on the entirely-too-large bed. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turns to go.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol talking. Perhaps it’s just because the absence of his touch makes Q suddenly feel strange. Perhaps it’s just because he’s an idiot, but he clears his throat and says, “James.”

“Yes?” The other agent turns back towards him.

Then Q’s off the bed, using some kind of mystical resource of power and energy that's drawing him towards the other man, and suddenly, he’s kissing James.  
And it’s good.  
It is so good, and yes, his balance may be slightly off and he may be slowly losing the will to live and James might be pulling away - wait. What?  
He opens his eyes, slightly breathless.

James tangles his fingers in his, “Q, it’s really not the time.”

What. The. Fuck. Did he honestly misinterpret the situation this badly? “What?”

“You’re drunk.” James sighs, and actually, honest to god, looks sorry. “I don’t want to… _ruin_ you.”

Ruin him? He’s pretty damn sure that with pupils blown, hair thoroughly mussed, and more than a little bit of arousal hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, he looks pretty damn ruined. 

It just _has_ to be the time that James develops a saviour complex.

For fuck’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, but yeah, I've been a bit busy and I do want to keep this story somewhat active.


	9. Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is finally time for the conference. Q is fairly sure he's messed something up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back back back back back!
> 
> #bants
> 
> I saw Spectre the other day. I was pleasantly surprised at the level of 00Qness in it.  
> What did y'all think?

It’s morning, Q has the headache of a lifetime, and he’s pretty sure he’s messed something up. He can’t quite remember what, but he can feel it in the air. Plus, he was drunk. Drunk him is never too great at life.

He opens his eyes to peer at the clock, squeezes them tightly shut again when he’s blinded by the brightest light in existence, then peeks again at the clock with one eye shut. 8.04 am. Okay, he can handle that.  
He thinks. 

He hauls himself up in a movement that doesn’t at all equate to ‘swift’ or ‘graceful’ and puts on his glasses. They do nothing to help him, instead seeming to exacerbate his headache to gigantic proportions.   
It is then he remembers, as he rubs a hand over his forehead, what he monumentally fucked up the night before. 

Good. As well as a headache he has the cringeworthy memories of the night before to deal with. This is a great start to the day. Especially a great start to a day where James and him have to perfect their fiance act. 

It’s like the universe is mocking him. 

He glances around. James is nowhere to be found. He reconsiders and supposes that the universe is not mocking him quite as much as it could be.

Upon stumbling out of bed and to the kitchen, he realises that there’s food enough to make some sort of massive fried breakfast thing. He doesn’t cook often, and when he does it often extends only to ‘massive fried breakfast things’, so he’s qualified enough. And aside from the headache and the awful memories from last night, he doesn’t feel too bad. No nausea, no vomiting… he’s guessing he got lucky in the least Biblical sense.

Perhaps the universe doesn’t hate him.

He reconsiders that statement about ten minutes later when he’s got his back to the door into the rest of the suite and his hands full of tomatoes.

An amused voice says, “You look surprisingly alive.”

He turns, it’s obviously Bond, but, less obviously, wearing nothing but a towel and looking positively alluring. Is this what it has come to? Is he on the set of a bad gay porn or something? What did he drink last night?  
He turns back to the tomatoes, blatantly ignores the slight flicker of heat in his belly and says dryly, “Apparently alcohol likes me or something.”

“Or something.”

Q hears the sound of one chair being moved at the table. He guesses Bond has sat down, “For the love of god, Bond, go and put something else on.” He goes back to slicing tomatoes, hearing no verbal response, but footsteps moving away from him.  
Or at least, he thinks he does.

When Bond says, from right behind him, “Why, am I making you uncomfortable?”, Q nearly slices off all of the fingers of his right hand. 

“You know why.” Q mumbles, all bravado from the night before gone. He feels like shit and he really doesn’t want to deal with his altogether too-overconfident drunk issues.

“You’re trying to get rid of me? Shame.” And then Q knows that Bond has buggered off because the breath on the back of his neck has gone.

He shakes himself. He hasn’t ruined everything, that much is obvious, but he’s started something that he’s not sure he has the capacity to finish. Idiot.

\--

He’s packed far before he needs to be. He’s not going to pretend he’s not nervous, because he is. He’s not used to this. He’s far more content to be sitting at his desk, telling people what to do through an earpiece, where his emotions don’t matter and aren’t monitored. This is serious. Probably more serious than anything he’s ever done.  
Those who are running the conference send a car to pick him and James up. He gets a bit of a shock when he opens the studio door to see Emilia and a bodyguard standing behind her, but then remembers from the night before that she is undercover as an administrative assistant at the conference. Or something. His memories are a bit foggy for obvious reasons.

Her expression is blank and unrecognisable. “Damien Fisher?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“You and your partner are quite ready to accompany us?”

Bond, using his trademark ninja skill, appears beside him, holding his duffel bag. “Damien and I are quite ready, aren’t we, love.” He gently intertwines their hands together and winks at Q.

“Quite.” Q picks up his own bag and slings it over his shoulder, wishing there was something he could do to stifle his blush.

“Good.” Emilia is very officious in her mannerisms, “If you’d follow me…”

\--

If it’s even possible, the conference facility is even more beautiful than the hotel. It’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere, Q’s cell signal dropped out about a half an hour before they reached the place, but it is very beautiful. He supposes it almost makes up for the fact that there’s no internet.

He busies himself with scanning their cabin (because there are, honest to god, cabins, like some sort of holiday camp) for bugs and just general technological trickery, while Bond preens himself like some sort of overinflated peacock and goes to talk to one of the staff members who had lead them to their cabin after Emilia had departed at the main gate. From what Q can hear from inside the living room of the cabin, Bond’s charm is on, full force.

He, himself, still feels a bit nauseous. The breakfast had helped, but he still wishes he hadn’t gone near the alcohol the night before. He’d spent enough time doing things he’d regret at university, and he isn’t especially keen on revisiting those scenarios at his advanced age. 

Bond strolls in while Q is plugging in his laptop. There’s no internet, but there is a sort of enclosed ethernet system that he’s sure he can utilise for his rather-nefarious purposes. 

“Have a nice chat?” He asks, not looking up.

“Quite. I got a guest list.”

“How?” They hadn’t been able to get a guest list from outside the compound. There were, of course, rumours, and general speculation of those who were reportedly supposed to be coming, and for these sorts of events, there were generally set people who attended all of them, but to get a guest list was a breakthrough.

“Pure skill.”

Q rolls his eyes, “Could you be more predictable?”

“I could -”

“Save it.” Q sighs. “Let me see.” He deals with the last wire and takes the list from Bond, who is looking very self-assured. He scans the list quickly, noting several names that he recognises, and a great deal more that he doesn’t.

“Are you trying to turn this room into a hardware store, Q?” Bond asks, a faint smile gracing his face.

“Next time you deal with the technological side of things if you’re going to doubt my methods, James.” He bites back, now ticking off those on the list who would likely be the target of an assassination attempts. There’s even a few world leaders on this list. If any of them got taken out it could easily spur on some form of war. 

“I wasn’t doubting your methods. I just thought we had moved on from the times of wire to the times of wireless.” 

“Why, Bond, I thought you’d remember the times of the wireless quite well considering you were born about then, right?” Q’s list ticking is done. He carefully caps his pen and places it down by his computer. No-one would know it by looking at the room, but he is actually quite meticulous.

“Don’t test me, pup.”

He turns to the older agent, “Or what?” 

If it wasn’t so horribly cliched, he could swear energy crackles between them, powerful and perfectly tangible. There is a lot of heat in the other agent’s gaze. He cocks an eyebrow at Q and says, “You’ll find out.”  
Then he turns and strolls away.

Q lets out a shaky breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. What the fuck?


	10. Suits and Ties, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank y'all for all of your kudos' and comments. You are all lovely.

“You know, Q, if you just got rid of those awful cardigans someone would surely make an honest man of you.” James mutters, whilst doing up his cufflinks on the other side of the room.

Q is buttoning up his shirt. He manages to tie his own tie himself this time, “I happen to like them. Besides, I am far from honest. Who even uses that expression nowadays?”

“I do.”

“Yes, well, you are known to be stuck in the past, aren’t you.”

James pouts. “I reject that. Just because my methods are more traditional doesn’t mean they don’t work.”

“Shooting things unnecessarily, deviating from mission parameters… need I go on? You could use a little more finesse at times.”

“I think you’ll find that I have all the finesse I need.” James raises an eyebrow at him.

“Mhm.” Q doesn’t really need to dignify him with a proper response. He pulls on his suit jacket, grabs his phone (they are in a dead zone, but Q’s phone is pretty great even without an external connection) and says, “If you’re quite done, I believe we have a mission to complete?”

“Or, rather, I have many peace talks to sit through and you just have to sit there.”

“Sit there?” He is affronted, ‘I’m the one who has to monitor everyone and find this presumed ‘killer’. I’m doing all the work.”

“Politics is not my strong suit.”

“You have something you’re not good at? That makes a change.” 

“Rude.”

“Only when I have to be.” He puts on his suit jacket - this one’s a more casual suit, navy, and he’s wearing converse instead of serious shoes - and tries to tame his mop with one hand. The hair is a problem, but then again, that’s not a new thing. 

James is eying him with an appraising eye. 

“What.”

“You should wear suits more often.”

“I’m fairly sure we’ve had this conversation.” Q bites back, “And I would, if they didn’t give me awful flashbacks to my childhood and weren’t incredibly uncomfortable.”

“It’s a shame.”

“You’ve no idea how much I’m resisting saying ‘your face is a shame’, right about now.” Q leads him to the door, “Are we leaving or are you going to keep putting this off?”

\--

The men end up in a large atrium with at least twenty other people in it. Q’s eyes widen when he sees a few that he recognises. 

“That’s the Peace Minister of Australia.” He whispers, “And the President of the United States…” Despite the fact that both of them are politicians, and Q has met people with considerably more power in his line of work, he’s a little bit star struck. He’s never been in the same room as so many important people before. 

“I do read my briefings, and the news, occasionally, Damien. There’s really no need to point out everyone to me.” Bond replies, and then smirked down at him. 

“Mhmm,” Q adds non-committedly, because the day that Bond reads his briefings fully is the day that hell freezes over, “Just for future reference. Save the important people first.”

“Who decides importance?” Bond questions.

“Presumably their position in society?” Q answers. “I guess? Leave me till last.”

“What if you’re the most important person here to me?” Bond says offhandedly. 

Q doesn’t really know how to reply to that, and feels himself blushing. 

Thankfully, Bond is led away with the other speakers and people of note, and he gets taken down to a room off to the side with those who are less important. He sets his equipment up, and prepares to monitor the conference with all the gusto of someone who knows that he should care slightly more than he does. 

It’s on the second day when he hears something that would probably cost him his life if the person who he overhears knows he is being overheard. The thing is, he’s not even actively looking for the bomber at this point. It’s just after dinner. He’s finding his way through the maze of corridors that lead to the door which eventually leads out to the cabins to debrief his day with James (spoiler alert: nothing has happened), when he hears a voice. Talking. Talking about bombing and death. It’s coming from a closet off one of the corridors. Now, Q isn’t stupid. He doesn’t hang about. He simply places one of his bugs – ironically the closet is one of the places in the entire complex that doesn’t have coverage from one of his other bugs – outside the door and buggers off. 

The conversation he records is interesting. A man is talking about planting bombs – and killing off the main players of the conference, but he doesn’t say why. There’s no sort of external motivation for the plot. Q doesn’t understand and when he discusses it with Bond, he doesn’t understand either. All Q knows that the bombing is not supposed to take place until the very end of the conference, so that at least gives him a bit of wriggle room. 

\--

The third day of the peace talks drag on. Q is only really half paying attention at this point. He isn’t really one for politics – individual countries and their problems really pale in comparison to the work that MI6 was doing on a daily basis. When lives were on the line there is no chatting about it. It is killed or be killed, as much as he wishes isn’t. Global peace is a nice goal, but it isn't anything he could really see happening in his lifetime.

James seems relatively bored, as far as Q can tell. It wasn’t as though the agent got fidgety, but there was something off about him. James never really had to sit still for this long on his missions and Q could tell that it was weighing on him. As well as the fact that they knew that something was going on – that their intelligence hadn’t been a hoax (although it rarely was) – and that at this juncture they were pretty much powerless to stop it. They had no idea who was plotting to kill the occupants of the conference, had no idea how they were going to do it, or when. They are flying blind.

All Q knows is that a man, an Englishman, judging by the accent he had overheard, although that could have easily been faked, is somehow part of the plot. Which leads him basically nowhere.  
He’s monitoring all of the audio bugs he has placed all over the compound, trying to catch the same notes that he heard that morning, wishing he had managed to record the voice when he had heard it – it had to have happened when he was placing the bugs, why do things never go right for him – when suddenly he hears it. It’s a stroke of luck, all of the conference members are off having lunch, and he’s in a small anteroom off one of the main corridors, but this voice isn’t in the lavish dining room. He tracks the bug back – he wishes that he could have planted visual bugs, but the conference’s locked down security system just isn’t conducive to that sort of treatment – and it’s coming from one of the cabins. Coincidentally, it’s the one incredibly close to his and James’. 

The voice is English, posh, and very articulate. Q cannot see the man but he visualises him as some sort of tall character, well-dressed, and too neat for words.   
“I wish I could, darling, but I need to know more.” The man continues. 

There is no more sound from the room, so Q presumes the man is on the comms to somebody. Q wishes he could track the signal, but it has to be coming from inside the compound and there’s no cell towers to track it back to.   
Darling? The man must be talking to someone he is at least familiar with, if not engaged romantically with. Q doesn’t know if this person is his pseudo-‘partner in crime’, or what, but it’s a start. He knows what cabin he has to break into now, at any rate.

“I doubt that MI6 has sent anyone. I am not that rash. I would know by now if they had acquired word of our plan.”

There is a pause. Q waits, fully focussed on the conversation at hand.

“You believe there is- Fine! I’ll keep watch for them, make a few inquiries and the like. Do not be surprised if nothing turns up, however.” 

Make a few inquiries? Does the man mean into him and Bond? They’re going to have to be a lot more careful with their cover. More couple-esque things… Q isn’t going to think about the slight wave of pleasure that runs through him with the thought.  
He checks the time. 1.04pm. It’s almost time for him to check in with Bond. Probably would help to do it in person too. It’s all for the cover. All of it. Entirely for the cover.  
He doesn’t quite believe himself.

\--

“How are you, honey?” Q asks James, voice dripping with false sweetness as he meets him on his way out of the dining room.

James, without missing a beat but obviously realising something is up says, “All the better for seeing you,” and pulls him into a kiss. 

Q isn’t at all thinking anything utterly untoward when they break apart, and says under his breath, a little huskily, “You are a walking stereotype.” 

James makes a noncommittal noise and pulls him towards one of the doors that leads outside. It’s harder to bug the outdoors, the background noise generally makes hearing distinct conversation impossible and so people generally don’t bother. At least, Q is hoping they don’t. His hands itch for his tools, his workshop, his sense of stability. Unfortunately, there’s none of that here. 

James looks at him expectantly when they’re outside, “Well, what did you want to tell me?”

Q relays the information to him quickly, making sure to emphasise the part about their cover. It wouldn’t do to get found out. They have a conference to save. This conference needs to go off without a hitch, especially with such prominent and important guests. Some of the people at the conference took a lot of persuading to get in the same room, and it is hardly known whether or not they will be able to be persuaded to reconvene after the conference is done. The conference is important for the world at large, as much as Q believes that global peace is a naïve goal. 

“How are you?” James asks, seriously, “Have you been eating?”

“Of course, mother.” Q says sarcastically, because he doesn’t need babying, and he does eat. Just not… very often. It’s probably something that contributes to his skinniness, comes to think of it. 

“Good. I can’t have my husband wasting away.” James says, and hugs him.

It’s odd, because Q doesn’t know what to think. James has never been this tactile before. He’s never been so nice, instead conveying his emotions through a shell of puns and cynicism. Q doesn’t really know what to think, but he can definitely believe that this James is one that has his best interests in mind.

“Damn, cute, guys.” There’s a voice, the somewhat-abrasive tones of the Australian that Q had met earlier. 

How had he snuck up on them? Q is at least sure that James would have noticed the approach of the Australian translator and the Russian woman he is translating for. Q really only remembers the Australian man because of the comment Emilia had made when they first met. She had said something like, “Fucking Australians,” under her breath, and it had stuck in his mind. 

“Mhmm.” James makes another non-committal noise and pulls out of the hug, opting to grab Q’s right hand instead, “I just can’t spend so long without him, you know.” 

“Yeah, newlyweds, huh?” The Aussie asks, “I was the same with Nikita when we married. Shit, that was a while back. Best of luck to you two, ay.” He pulls the smaller Russian woman with him and they walk off, through the forest. Q realises that the woman must be Nikita. Huh. 

“Odd.” He muses.

“Yes.” James agrees. “I have to be very important and wealthy now, Damien, darling, so I will see you later.” He hugs Q again. Q is most definitely not complaining. 

\--

They eat dinner with a few other members of the conference. The Australian’s name is Matt, and he’s Nikita’s translator, as well as her husband. The French brothers eat with them as well, as do the delegate and her translator from Canada. The meal is nice, at the level he’d been expecting since they arrived at the retreat, but also nothing particularly spectacular. Q feels like he should be savouring the food slightly more, because after he (and he supposes, James, to some extent) save the occupants of the conference he’ll be going home to what barely passes as dinner and too-milky tea, but he cannot muster the energy. Being out in the field is tiring. He needs more caffeine.   
He’s going to leave the exploration of the mysterious English man’s cabin until the next morning. He’ll probably be in it, now, and it’ll be easier to check out when he’s got no chance of the cabin’s occupant walking in on him. If only he could find out who the man is. The guest list he has lists all of the conference’s guests, but none of their respective rooms. He wishes his job could be slightly easier.

He’s at the desk in the bedroom, going through all of the audio that his bugs collected from the day, when James walks in, and rests his hands lightly on his shoulders. 

Q tenses, slightly, but he’s sure it’s perceptible. “James.” He takes off his headphones. 

“Come to bed, Q.”   
And Q does. 

They don’t fuck, and Q is more than a little bit disappointed, because he knows that if he was a women he and James would have gone at it by now, and despite James constantly saying he’s ‘trying to protect him’, Q is not a child and he doesn’t want to be treated as such. 

He’s an adult, and knowing him, he’s going to be the one who will somehow save James Bond from himself.


	11. Well, Shit.

Q goes to investigate the cabin the next morning, by himself. James is, predictably, not happy, but there isn’t much he can do about it because he has to attend peace talks. They are all just playing a role, and James has to maintain his cover as long as possible. Q’s cover is less important at this point. Plus, any sort of discovery about the bomb threat is more important than any self-preservation instinct Q has at this point. He doesn’t particularly want to investigate the cabin that the mysterious killer owns, but he has no other choice.  
It is about ten-thirty when he unlocks the door using an electronic lockpick of his own invention. He had, of course, checked that no-one was inside before doing so, and he’s used what power he has to check that there’s no sort of surveillance monitoring the inside of the room. It should be safe for him to look about – he hopes.  
The cabin is simple, but clearly occupied by two people. The bed has been obviously slept in by two, and there are two distinct sets of belongings scattered about the place. A man and a… woman it looks like, if the lacy underwear he spots is an inclination. That, or somebody has a very specific underwear preference. Q is presuming the first option for the sake of argument. 

He hunts about for all of the discarded technology he can and gets to work. 

It is not long before he has practically unravelled the whole plot. Q isn’t really one for conspiracy theories, but this does seem a little… easy. What he’s learned is that there is a bomb planted in the resort somewhere – although he doesn’t know exactly where. He thinks he can find out where – if only he can get his hand on one of the phones that the couple owns. He presumes that they will have gone to said location of the bomb and he’ll be able to track it. Or something. This lack of exterior technology is driving him mad.   
The couple residing in the cabin are Tim Johnson, a translator from England, who he believes is translating for someone from the Ukraine, and a fellow translator called Chloe Adams. Q doesn’t know their motives for attempting to kill everyone at the conference, but from the intelligence he has found he thinks the couple work for a larger organisation, which, unfortunately, he cannot find the name or any other information about.   
He leaves the cabin, irritated. He has names and almost direct evidence of this terror threat, but there’s no link to an actual bomb. He has to get his hands on one of their phones.

\--

Q spots the couple. They have nameplates sitting in front of their chairs. Tim Johnson is a lithe, almost-eerie looking man, bald, and very pale. His partner (or whatever they are) is olive-skinned, with short, dark hair, and dark red lipstick. 

He points the pair out to James at lunch, and tells him of their guilt. James is suddenly serious, back into his mission face, and says, “I’ll have to get one of their phones then.”

It is as simple as that. Later that evening, James disappears for about half an hour with a data downloader and comes back, victorious, with apparently, the contents of both of the couple’s phones downloaded onto it. 

Q doesn’t know how he did it, and doesn’t ask. He’s just better off not knowing some things.  
It doesn’t take him long to sort through the data and find the location of the bomb. He didn’t want to think about how easy it was to find everything else out. It seemed too simple. Things were never simple in this job. 

James looks like he wants to rush out and find the bomb the moment Q tells him where it is. Q agrees, because they need to sort this issue out, but he’s wary. He doesn’t know if this is the right time. There’s something fishy about this and he doesn’t know what it is.   
James doesn’t want him to come with him, but Q is an adult. He can stand up for himself. Times have changed since James joined MI6, and Quartermasters aren’t just there to provide the tech. 

James sighs, and looks at him fondly when he tells him this, “Fine. Just listen to me and if I tell you to get out, get out.”

Q messages Emilia before they leave their cabin to tell her what they’re doing. It’s best to have another agent ready to go if something happens to them. She wants to come along to help, but Q thinks it’ll be safer if she stays behind so she can get help if need be.

They progress, slowly, across to the location where Q says the bomb will be. James’ muscles look tight and he looks more stoic than Q has ever seen him. This is Mission James. There is none of the tactile, comfortable man he has spent the last few days with, left.  
James pulls his gun out when they reach the small maintenance shed on the edge of the property that Q believes has the bomb in it. Why he didn’t check here before, he has no idea. It’s out of the way enough to hold many more secrets.

However, when they get inside the shed, there isn’t any bombs in sight, but rather, a ladder, and a large hole in the floor. “Huh…” Q thinks out loud, wondering why some sort of underground system didn’t show up on the plans. “I guess we should go down there.”

James goes first, as per usual. He calls up to Q when he’s down the bottom to say that it is safe.

 

There are four tunnels running out from the room they find themselves in. 

“Any idea of which way we should go?” James asks.

Q thinks for a moment, “It’s probably likely that they’d put any sort of bomb type device below the main conference building. That’d be… that way?” He points towards a skinny tunnel that is just to the left of him. 

“Okay. Stay close.” James’ voice is terse.

The tunnel angles slowly upwards as they walk. It is dead quiet, the only sound being the noise of their footsteps on the floor. Anyone about would hear them coming. Q is being to think that this situation is resembling a trap more and more.   
After about three hundred metres of tunnel, they come out into an open room, and almost in the direct centre of it is a large device, about the size of a small car, that is wired to most of the surrounding walls. 

This has to be the bomb. Q breathes a sigh of relief. Now, all they have to do is disarm it, make sure it can’t be rearmed, and get Chloe and Tim and take them in. All in a day’s work, really.   
James has not relaxed, and is scanning the entrances of the room (of which there are four in total) with his gun, “Look at it.” He hisses.

And Q does. It seems fairly simple, from what he can tell, despite its large size. There is a remote trigger attached to the device, a computerised control pad, and a sheer fuckton (which is a measurement, especially in this case) of explosive. Q reckons he’ll be able to disarm this bomb within minutes, and he tells James so.

Which is when everything goes wrong. 

Shutters slam down over all of the entrances to the room. How did Q not notice them when they came in? James runs over to one, and tries desperately to get it open, while Q runs over to another. The metal over the door is slick with something and he has no purchase on the surface. He thinks. He could use something in the room to blow it open – surely there has to be something…

But then white gas starts rising up from grates in the floor and Q realises it has all been a trap. Everything. Everything has been a trap. 

He starts coughing before he can take a breath properly, and collapses to his knees. He needs to breathe. He needs air. He needs it now. He needs air before he –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welll... shit.  
> Where could this go from here?


	12. Unforeseen Interruptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE
> 
> There is some non-con in the next couple of chapters. It's not very detailed, but there is some. Please stay safe people.

Q sucks in a huge breath as he wakes, and looks around wildly. The room is bright, brighter than it was before, and he’s been tied to a chair. 

Serves him fucking right for hanging about with James Bond.   
He likes Bond’s company, he really does, but there has been a distinct lack of ‘normalcy’ (or what counts as normalcy for him) since this mission had begun. 

James is tied to another chair, about five metres away. Johnson, the tall man is talking to him, Chloe, the woman, is doing something to the bomb behind him (the bomb?), and there are three guards standing about, all focused on James. 

Q takes a second and realises that Johnson is in the middle of a sentence.  
“-Then we’ll blow this place and everyone will die, including you and your partner, Mr Bond!” Johnson almost cackles. The three other guards around the room look smugly down at them.  
Q wonders if all villains have to be so cliched. Honestly. He’s sure that they will get out of there fine. He’s not worried. Well, not entirely worried. Bond has a saviour complex, is good with his hands and stressful situations and - 

Then Q looks over at Bond properly, and notes that the other man looks worried - far from the decidedly unruffled that he tends to be in these sorts of situations. 

His hands begin to sweat. Ah. This could be an issue.

Bond looks tired.

“You could also not do that?” Q offers up. He doesn’t know why he speaks. In hindsight, it was a dumb idea. Perhaps it’s some of the drug that’s still in his system. Alerting the villains of the plot to his conscious mind is a trick he’s not going to try again. 

The occupants of the room look over at him. They’ve realised he’s awake. Dumb. He should have played asleep. Now they have someone else to focus on.

Johnson turns to him. “Ah, yes. The hacker…” He moves closer.

“I’m actually not just a hacker, but label me how you want. Everyone else does.” 

“Yes.” Johnson muses, “What is your relationship with him, I wonder…” He cocks his head at Bond. “I never knew that the great 007 himself would settle down.”

“Settling down really isn’t on the cards.’ Q drawls, before he can stop himself. If he’s going to die, he may as well make a real arse of himself before he does, “So, why are do you want to kill everyone?”

He can see Bond shaking his head at him in the corner of his eye, and realises he should probably keep his mouth shut. As per usual, his mouth is not listening. 

“I mean, I could tell you, but that’d ruin the fun.” Johnson says, “Instead, I think we could spend our time in more… interesting ways.” He walks over to Q and stands in front of him.

“What.” Q doesn’t like where this is going. It reeks of clichéd plots and him being the damsel in distress, which is definitely not the case. 

“What indeed.” And keeping eye contact with Q, Johnson leans around him to slice the tape open that is binding his hands. The eye contact is grossly intimate, so much so that Q wants to move away, but he really cannot. He’s tied around his feet, too, with cool metal chains that he can feel leaving indentations on him through his dress pants.   
The man breathes on his face, hot and heavy. It is completely disgusting. He hands are free but there’s just too much closeness going on. He can’t escape. He wouldn’t even make it to the door with the guards standing around.   
He can feel the other man’s hands grazing over his bare skin and he doesn’t like it. It reminds him how serious this situation is. He’s never been out in the field to this extent before. He needs to escape.

“If you could...not?” He says slowly. “I thought you were well and truly engaged with someone.”

“You’re tied to a chair and you’re questioning my motives?” Johnson looks vaguely disgusted, “If you must know, I don’t mind, and neither does she. Now, Q, everyone knows that you’re hopeless in love with him. Has he fucked you yet?”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, uncomfortable with having his secrets laid out for the world to see in front of him. There’s a reason that he tends to keep to himself.   
Opening them again, he snarks, “I wasn’t aware that villains cared about the relationship status of agents. What are you, a gossip magazine? Murder Weekly?”

“Oh, Q.” Johnson strokes a finger over his cheek and Q forces himself not to flinch away. He’s never liked people touching him. “I was just wondering how much it’d hurt him if I made him watch.”

“Or, instead of doing that,” Q snarks again, “You could just tell me the parts of your plan that I haven’t figured out, and then let me beat you. It’d be more story-book, don’t you think?”

He really doesn’t like what follows.

Johnson drags a hand through his hair, pulls his head back roughly and bites at his neck. Q gasps as the man’s teeth bite into his neck, and he flails with his arms, trying to push the significantly heavier man off him. This feels wrong, so wrong, and he wants to get away. The bite stings, and against his will, tears spring to his eyes. He’s not going to cry. He’s an agent, for fuck’s sake.

Finally Johnson pulls away. Q is in considerable pain, neck stinging, and he cannot focus.

“Leave him alone.” Bond says, from past the man’s shoulder. “Do whatever you want to me, but just leave him.” His voice is tense. Q tries to crane his head to see him, but the man is in the way.

“Oh, Bond, dear…” Johnson purrs, “You’re simply too old for me.”  
Q is too disgusted to think into the implications of what that could mean.

He looks away as Johnson guides his hand to the material of his suit pants. He feels hot and embarrassed, nausea rising in his stomach. He wants to get away, but he can’t. He flails, trying to find some purchase, striking out at whatever he can, but the other man is much bigger and stronger than he is. If only his legs weren’t chained.   
He can’t escape, 

he can’t 

he can’t

he can’t - 

“Darling!” A woman’s voice, Chloe’s voice. 

He startles sharply back into conscious thought.

“What?” Johnson asks, sharply, turning to her. He doesn’t look happy. 

Q’s hands drop to his sides. He can’t make them work. He feels hollow and wrung-out, and he’s not sure if he can move. 

“Ten minutes to detonation.” The woman says, “We should probably be making tracks.” 

Johnson looks back to Q and pouts, “Shame. He could have provided a nice distraction.” 

“There are others.” Chloe points out. “His death is more important. Both of their deaths.”

“Mmmmm.” Johnson ponders, “True. You’re right.”

“I always am.” She grins, and somehow her grin is more sadistic than the man’s.

“It’s been a pleasure, darling.” The man chuckles and ruffles Q’s hair.   
Q hates it when people ruffle his hair. 

Johnson nods at the guards, and they, he, and Chloe leave the room, shutters slamming down behind them.

Q sags in his seat, not even caring that the bomb is about to go off and likely kill them and those in the conference rooms and building right above them. 

He feels numb, and sick to his stomach. What had happened – what was going to happen – he cannot process. His head hurts. He needs time to think.  
He doesn’t have time to think.

“Q.” There’s another voice, breaking through his revere, “Look at me.”

He raises his head, reluctantly.

Bond, of course, Bond. He’s somehow gotten free of his bonds, and is kneeling in front of him. His expression is not expectant, just carefully blank. “I need you to go and defuse that bomb. Can you?”  
His first reflex is to snap at the other agent – of course he can, the bomb was easy before, and he doesn’t need the other man belittling him – but he is so tired, and he just doesn’t care that his world is ending. He isn’t cut out to be in the field. He isn’t cut out to be an agent. 

“Q.” Bond is undoing his chains, the sharp tang of the metal finally giving him some space, “Can you?”

It is his job. It is his duty. It’s not about him. It’s never about him. “Y..yes, Bond.”

“James, please.” The man helps him up and takes him over to the bomb. It is beeping wildly and there is an obvious countdown. _8.38._ Right. He can do this. This is why MI6 employed him. 

The bomb wasn’t hard to stop, before. That was before. Everything inside Q feels like it is working at a pace insurmountably slower than it was previously. He cannot think. 

It’s barely under a minute when he realises that he actually cannot defuse the bomb. There’s been something else added to it. Something that he cannot defuse, definitely as he’s without the tools he would usually use in this scenario. “Can’t do it.” He tells James, panicking a little.

“Okay.” James looks calmer than he feels, “I’ll radio for Emilia to evacuate everyone, you get at least one of those doors open.”

And so Q does. He manages to get the door open that they originally came through, using a keypad next to the door and some reserve of strength that he doesn’t know how he harnesses. They’ve both been disarmed, and he doesn’t know where their weapons are. Too late now.   
As he and James leave the room, him at a mind-numbingly fast sprint, and James at a slightly-faster, practically pulling him along sprint, the timer on the bomb reads _2:32._

He struggles to climb the ladder, throat twinging painfully and lungs burning. He doesn’t feel numb any more. He just wants to live. Processing can come later, after he’s escaped. 

He’s barely pulled himself out of the tool shed, Bond hot on his heels, when there is an abrupt thud that seems quieter than it should be, and the ground mere metres from where they were just standing falls away. They’re not close to the complex, by any means, and in the distance he can see the buildings crumbling before his eyes. 

“Shit,” He breathes, not knowing whether or not to hug the ground considering the very tenuous nature of it not too far away, “That couldn’t have been any closer.” He hopes that Emilia got everyone out of the buildings alright. Their job was to save the conference, and he hopes that they succeeded. He lays his head on the ground, just thankful that he’s alive. He hopes that everyone else is, but at the moment, he’s just so incredibly thankful that he and Bond got out without injury. 

“Q.” James’ voice sounds slightly strangled.

He looks up and is granted with a sight he wouldn’t have ever expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Spectre the other day and decided to set this after Spectre and after my short story Spectrelations. Why? I don't know.
> 
> Also that ending?   
> ;)


	13. We Spoke Yesterday, and It Was Just As Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the conclusion.

In hindsight, perhaps he should have expected this. He’s not an idiot and the day’s been enough of a walking cliche thus far, but the several guns pointed right at their heads still manage to surprise him.

“So, you got out, did you?” Johnson looks even more like a tyrant behind the trigger of a Glock. “Can’t say I’m surprised. MI6’s best brains and guns. I would have been disappointed if you had died in there.” He jerks a thumb at the pit behind them.

“I’m not my predecessor, Johnson.” Bond warns, with a voice like granite. “I don’t have time for your self-flagellation. Kill us, or fuck off, would you?”

 

Even in his pain-numb haze, Q can hear the tightness in Bond’s voice. He sounds tired. Q doesn’t exactly blame him. He sinks to the muddy grass below him, muscles protesting as he does so.

 

“Now, now, now -” Johnson starts, but Q interrupts him, having suddenly gotten to the point where he gives absolutely no fucks.

 “Did you just blow up a conference centre to kill all of _three_ spies? Really? Was that your motivation?” Q snips, wondering if he’s beginning to lose his mind from blood loss. He’s pretty sure at least some part of him is bleeding. “You could have literally shot me in the pasta aisle at Asda. That was a _nice_ conference centre.”

“You never go to Asda.” James interjects from beside him, sounding very worse-for-wear.

"Shut up, Bond, you wouldn’t know.” He goes out occasionally. He’s been to Asda! (Just not very recently.) “What’s the point of this, Johnson? So much explosion for very little result. It’s very maniacal dictator of you.”

 

Johnson looks vaguely amused. He gestures, and the guns around them are lowered, but still not to the point where they can escape. “Q, I could take you away right now and there’s nothing your little boyfriend could do to stop me.” He reaches out a hand and tilts Q’s chin up to face him. “I _enjoy_ this.” 

Q slaps his hand away. “If you’re going to assault me, do it now before I die of blood loss.” He says, and  _ glares. _

 

The owners of the the guns champ and sneer.

Smoke blows past from behind him. The rubble of the conference centre seems to be on fire. 

 

Johnson snarls and reaches towards him, without another word.

 

Q drops his head to his chest and closes his eyes. Greasy fingers scrabble through his hair and leave him nauseous. He doesn’t like anyone touching his hair. He doesn’t  _ want  _ anyone touching his hair.

As his head is yanked back he tastes a rush of copper in his mouth and realises he’s bitten his own tongue. His heart is pounding loud and insistent in his ears. 

He should fight, but somehow, he just can’t.

 

[...]

 

It is almost a welcome relief to wake and hear the thrumming of a plane engine somewhere in the background of his consciousness.

 

Q hates planes, but he doesn’t think he’s openly bleeding anywhere, so he hates  _ this  _ plane slightly less. He’s on his side, he can tell that much, but he’s unsure about whether or not to open his eyes. 

If he’s been captured and is being taken away for some hairbrained villainous plot, they don’t need to know he’s awake.

He does need to know if he’s safe though. That much is important. 

 

Cracking one eye open, he looks about, realises he doesn’t have his glasses on, and shuts it again. The world is  _ blurry,  _ like a picture out of focus. He’s pretty sure it’s not usually  _ that  _ bad without his glasses. 

On a positive note, he’s fairly sure he’s not on a passenger plane. It seems like he’s strapped to a gurney in a military plane. That bodes better for the whole ‘being saved by MI6’ theory. 

 

“About time you woke up.” And the voice, thank  _ every  _ deity, is Bond’s.

 

He’d weep, if he wasn’t sure that their inevitable rescue meant that he’d have to start processing a lot of stuff pretty soon.

 

“I barely opened my eyes, 007, I don’t know if that constitutes ‘awake’.” He gripes, but there’s no malice in it. He feels remarkably good considering the whole ‘nearly-dying’ thing.

“Johnson and his pals have all been rounded up, by the way.” Bond continues, from somewhere behind Q’s left ear. “Emilia saved the day, just in time.”

“She’s pretty bloody good.” Q says, opening his eyes again. 

 

The plane rattles and groans, but it doesn’t really phase him this time.

 

“You’re on morphine.” Bond says, answering the unasked question. “So am I. Said they’d fix us up once Her Majesty’s got her hands on us once again.”

“Cynicism, Bond? That’s not like you.” Q teased, and tries to turn over. It hurts a bit, but not nearly as much as he’s sure it’s going to. “That mission was a right royal cock-up, you know.”

“We didn’t die, we found the bombers and none of the politicians died.” Bond reminds him, “If that’s a cock-up, I’ve got to do it more often.”

“We destroyed a really nice conference centre.” Q says mournfully. “I liked that cabin. It was nice.”

“There was no internet there. You wouldn’t have lasted a week.” Bond chuckles, and scuffles about behind him.

Q’s pretty sure they’re lying on two separate gurneys attached to the floor of the giant plane, but he can’t turn over to check. “I would have. You don’t know me that well, Bond.”

“We’ve worked together for nearly five years. I’d hope I know you fairly well by now.” 

 

“Bar whatever that ‘sleepover’ was at my flat, and this mission, Bond, you and I have hardly spoken face-to-face in five years. There’s a pretty low bar and I don’t think this ‘relationship’ has reached it.”

Bond huffs quietly and Q bets that if he could see him, he’d be rolling his eyes. “You know my reputation. This is basically courtship.”

“How quaint.” He settles his head back down and stifles a grin.  _ Honestly…  _ “I’ve been getting James Bond’s idea of courtship. Should I feel special?”

Bond quiets for a second. “I suppose I should apologise for my behaviour, then. I… worry about you, Q, and I know I’m not supposed to say that, being the bloody man of stone and all. You work yourself into the ground.”

“You can talk.” Q bites back, words sounding harsher than he intended.

 

The plane shakes around them.

 

“I’m trained for this. You’re not.” He sounds about as exasperated as Q feels

“...What are we doing, Bond? What is this? We’ve been on eggshells around each other since this damn mission began.” At this point, Q really just wants some answers. Their mission is over - do they just go back to aimless flirting in corridors, too close for coworkers but not close enough for anything more?

 

Frankly, he’s sick of it. 

 

Bond is silent for a long moment. “...When you and I are both mentally sound, and by that, I mean morphine-free, do you want to talk about it?”

 

And so, they do.

 

 

Later, sat in his ticking kitchen, with the Allycat perched in his lap, they  _ do  _ talk about it. It’s less of a negotiation and more of an agreement between opposing countries, but somehow, they make it work.

 

It’s odd to see MI6’s poster boy,  _ the  _ James Bond, the mythical man himself, sat in his kitchen in a ghastly patterned jumper, but somehow it  _ works. _

 

He wishes this could have happened earlier. Five years of skirting around each other and they’re (technically) on their second date.

 Never in anything other than fantasy did he think that he’d get anywhere near _the_ James Bond. It’s bizarre, on the very edge of fancy, and he can hardly believe it himself.

 

But somehow, somehow when James leans in to kiss him, the promise of something much deeper and  _ better  _ in his eyes, it just feels  _ right. _

(The Allycat protests, but then again, she always does.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two years.  
> I've had a lot on. 
> 
> Oops.
> 
> (fin. finally.)


End file.
